Celebration
by Synthetic Voice
Summary: An idea that I had, of the relationship between Loghain and Ser Cauthrien. Take as you will. Edit: Spoilers for THE STOLEN THRONE if you have not read it. Apologies for not adding this in when I uploaded the story.


The battle was over sooner than it began, and they were victorious. That much he could remember through the fog of alcohol, roughly made at a nearby farm and nauseating to the stomach, now lancing through his veins - a moment ago his hands had been gripping blades, sinking them into flesh and bone and rending foes in twain.

Now one hand grasped a mug of ale, the other raised in triumph while his fellows slapped his back as they whooped and hollered around a campfire in a shaded area of the wood. One of the rare, few times he could be seen as something other than a stoic man, a frowning man; no, for now he would join in and allow himself a little merriment. It was a small but loud celebration, a tiny battle that was infinitesimal in the grand scheme of war against the Orlesians, but a victory was a victory was a victory and they could use any excuse to raise gaiety and morale in these harsh times.

And before he knew it, he was being pushed off into the soft arms of one of the lasses. He was the hero of the battle, after all. His strategy had felled their enemies, used the few skills their troops had to the greatest advantage, gave them the courage to go into battle. His friends - the golden haired boy, Prince Maric, who would be king, and the betrothed, Rowan, the one who would never be _his_ - they were laughing and carousing with the rest.

His gaze rested on them too long: Rowan turned her head and let her eyes meet his. Her face beamed with pride, on him and on their accomplishment; and something else, between forced dislike and a more alien emotion; all in one glance. He turned away; he had never wanted it to be like _this_.

The alcohol dashed all doubts that sprang into his mind - he was the cynical one, the one who would be stubborn against everything until he was completely beaten down. But that was no reason why he couldn't find pleasure, at least for one night. After all, the girl who so craved his attentions was soft, warm; her eyes were brown and hair was a mop of russet curls, like Rowan's. Her manner was far more docile, but he wasn't going to complain.

His lips pressed hers roughly, imagining a different taste in his mouth; his hands groped in his attempts to be gentle (outwardly he was a harsh man, but it was a facade, all of it - at least for now), unsure and shaken with drink; and then she was leading him off into the woods, encouraging his efforts. After all, he was a hero (for tonight); and he wasn't ugly, or so he was told, it was just that perpetual scowl that scared others away. Her fingers grasped at his shirt; it came away with little effort.

It was quicker than he would have liked – a handful of thrusts and he came. The drink encumbered him, but she was shuddering under him regardless. Perhaps an act, perhaps true, he cared not. In his mind, it was not her under him, it was another. The one who could not be his. The one who he would never allow to be his. She deserved better than a farmer's son, more than a common-born Ferelden man. Especially so since she had been betrothed to Maric since they were children. She would be queen to Maric's king – how could he compete with that?

No, he would settle for being his king's general, the greatest ever known in this country. The bitterness, the hate, the regret would sink into him throughout the years, eroding his morals. But not now; for now, he would roll off this girl, and fall into a deep slumber. She would rest with him for the night but be gone by morning, back to her farm and family - he would never even know her name.

* * *

The thieves were on them before they could realize it – not Orlesian, what few were left now in Ferelden that would stand by the slowly falling tyrant; these were simple farmers turned bandits in hard times. He and his companion, another soldier, were outnumbered but holding their own easily. The bandits were poorly trained, poorly armed; numbers were the only thing allowing them to stand against two battle hardened men. For a moment, he felt badly about cutting down his fellow countrymen.

Then he remembered how Fereldens had betrayed Moira Theirin, the rightful queen, and cut her down with her own men, bought with bribes. A good woman, a good queen, killed because those men were afraid of losing what little possessions, lands, and titles they had left. They could not believe that by banding together they could thwart the Orlesians invading their land. His trepidations turned into rage, and he began to cut through them, though they gave him a wound for every man he slaughtered.

It would've been such a shame - a grand general, cut down by his own countrymen because of starvation and another man's need to survive. Similar to the good queen, but perhaps not as poetic.

But he did not die, for help came from the most unlikely of places. A youth leapt into the fray, brandishing a rusted dagger that was almost too large for her hand and dressed in cotton commoner's clothes. Deep brown hair was tied up in a loose pony tail, she wielded the blade as though she had had some training (or perhaps had been mimicking others) - and then the odds were evened. Parrying a blow here, dealing one there, the girl moved as if possessed with an inner rage that could only be satisfied with bloodlust and fighting.

Rather than observing her in battle, he moved to match her, his long sword extending his reach, feeling confident in allowing his back to be guarded by this sudden anomaly. Nothing in him screamed at him to protect this child, this girl-child; nothing in him said that it was strange that she might attempt to protect the man who was in charge of protecting the realm under the would-be king.

Three of them, two soldiers and a girl, worked together in tandem and managed to cut down the rest of the bandits without further incident. He noted that she did not pause after stabbing one man in the throat (he had left it open, and she hadn't hesitated to capitalize on the move), bringing him to wonder if she had killed before (and had it been for protection? Obviously these were still harsh times, and who knew how long these bandits had been here or where they had passed through beforehand).

Once the last man had fallen, she turned to look at him - and it was like looking into a mirror. He fell to one knee in shock. Rushing forward, she had thrown an arm over one small shoulder in an effort to help him up; if he had not been so stunned, he might have found it laughable.

"My lord! I'd no idea it was you!" Did she make a habit of saving others? He found himself and rose to his feet - still, she had insisted on helping him to her home, unwilling to take no for an answer. The small girl (perhaps twelve? Had it been that long?) had an air of command about her, and he fought not to smile when he saw the scowl on her small face. She and the soldier took him to the nearby homestead and help. He'd been healed, and had spoken with the girl's father - the mother was long dead, passed away in childbirth.

Hopes that had been raised were crushed; there were no answers to be found, no use in voicing rumors that would only hurt this man. With some persuasion, he managed to convince the father to allow him to recruit the girl, knowing that she would prove to be a valuable soldier in years to come. The fire burning within her deserved more than to be a simple farmer's wife. She was rough, but with the proper training she would be...a general to rival him.

Of course, there was more to it, an ache and a desire to keep something that he might have made. In the past he had allowed others to take from him, but not this time. Not when his mark shown so brightly in the gloom.

* * *

"Anora, hush."

"This is serious, father! Do not treat me as if I were a child!"

"A daughter is always six years old, with pig tails and skinned knees."

The blond fell silent. Though she was his acknowledged daughter, he saw little of himself in her.

Yes, there was the ruthless temper, the cunning, the bullheadedness. But she was a courtier, a warrior in words and not in action. She would do what was _right_ - after all, he had certainly ridden that point home in her. His absence had hardened her; his betrayal of her husband had led her to question him. Perhaps she had never fully trusted him, but that was not why he had done what he had done. He had seen that she would be a good queen, and had taken steps to make it so. After all, he had done it before.

Strokes and brush marks of _her,_ the one he had never allowed himself to have, washed up on her face as emotions warred within him - the security of her throne, the loss of the one whom she had tried so hard to win. Rejection, denial, regret and remorse. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, to caress and calm the child he saw in her blue eyes.

But there was no time.

The brunette was always silent, standing near the blond in soundless support. Cauthrien was ever standing at the ready, never questioning, unwavering in trust. Always true, but what else could she be?

If he had been harsh with his acknowledged daughter, the other he had treated almost cruelly. He was so with all of his soldiers - and if in the daughter he saw a good queen, in the other he saw a grand general. She had his fire, his resolve, his genius in the battlefield. Parts of his soul shone through in her, and he knew she would've been the acknowledged daughter had he and Rowan been allowed to wed (rather, if he had been selfish enough to wed her), though she would never know it; perhaps in a different place, in a different time.

In both he saw the future, and had taken steps to make it so. Where he had failed so greatly, they would resolve what they could. It was strange, when he had worked so hard to make this country safe for his children, that he should tear it asunder and leave it for them to heal. So like the good queen and her son, the golden haired boy. The golden haired boy's son had been weak, like his father (how could he say that of his dearest friend, but it was true all the same); but not his children, no, not his girls. He had worked too hard to see them fall, and he knew they would not.

"I am ready, Warden." And if his children did fail, if they did err, this man would be there to protect the country. This Grey Warden, whom he had fought so hard against; he thought that the Wardens were the enemies, the change that rose on the horizon. That they would provide the gateway for the Orlesians. After all, in the past they had attempted a coup; how did one know that they would not try again? Orlais would only be too eager to sink its claws into Ferelden soil, again torn apart by civil war, to reclaim territory it had lost not more than three decades ago.

But this man had defeated him in battle, had proven himself worthy. Yes, he could trust his country, and his daughters, with this man - and go to his death with his conscience clear, his reputation sullied. This was the only way to cleanse it.

"No, _please_..." Anora's pleading fell on deaf ears - that was not of him. It was something he abhorred.

But the blade was swinging, and in the last moment he had on this earth he sought her out, Cauthrien's (what a beautiful name - who's had it been? Named for a mother lost in the birthing? Or had that been the name of the battle, their victory?) eyes so like her mother's (they were not his, so they could only be hers), the only thing of hers in a face that was his, and met them with his own, filling them with his pride and his love and everything he had always wanted to say but had never had the time to.

There had never been enough time.

His body fell to the floor, as awash in baptismal blood as Andraste had been bathed in flames, head spun away across the room. His life had never been complete without loss, without death.

Anora rushed forward, crimson splattered across her pretty face, then hesitated over the body before grief overcame her and she sank down into the blood to have one last contact with the shell that had been her father.

Cauthrien started, her body not her own, her unconscious desires forcing themselves present; then she pulled herself together - her face showed the shock both from the sudden execution and from everything he had told her in that one last look; she had known this man her whole life, had epitomized him. She had watched him falter, his star sinking slowly down in the horizon. She had denied it almost to her last breath - was nearly willing to die to deny any slander if it had not been for the words of the Warden.

And now...now she knew why she had been so willing, though it made her heart hurt in her breast to know so late. Still, she had all those years of training, of standing by his side - the ultimate moment being when he had named her his lieutenant. Amongst his soldiers she had shone, making sure to repay the chance he had given her after giving her something other than her father's farm; had fought tooth and nail because she was driven so. She had thought that she had seen a spark of pride on his face, but it was there and gone before she could realize what it was. But then she schooled her face, the stoicism hiding her emotions.

So like her father. There would be time for grief after the battle - now they needed to be strong. She would let Anora weep for the both of them and let that suffice for now. She would grieve in her own time, in her own way - after victory had been gained, after the celebration.

After all, that was what she had been named for.


End file.
